


Two Hearts Beat As One

by Cynaera (LFN_Archivist)



Series: P.J. [3]
Category: La Femme Nikita
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 03:35:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16467899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LFN_Archivist/pseuds/Cynaera
Summary: This story was originally posted to the LFN Storyboard Archives by Cynaera, who passed away in 2012.





	Two Hearts Beat As One

P.J. was dead. The timeline was clearly etched in Michael’s mind, each event marked as if with neon ink. It had been a month since P.J. had opened his beautiful, generous heart to the nearly-dead people in Section One, before surrendering his own life. Three more weeks since Michael had gone to Nikita’s apartment, braved her wrath and unbelief, and had confessed his feelings to her. Another week since that epiphany. 

Now, Michael sat at the briefing table – an almost nauseatingly familiar scenario. He’d repeated it, time after time, day after day, month after year after eternity… The repetitiveness of it grated on his nerves, unbeknownst to Operations. Michael put his best face forward, listening, even though he already knew the parameters, had pre-planned them a hundred ways long before the briefing had taken place. He was bored – but more than that, he was scared… 

He thought of Nikita, and that moment a week earlier. He recalled that afternoon he’d confessed his love for her. He remembered the way she’d stared at him for almost a full minute, those cornflower-blue eyes amazed and astonished, a touch disbelieving – and then the ecstasy when she’d thrown her arms around him and held him as if defying a tornado to bear them away. 

For a few short minutes, then, Michael had been complete. He remembered those precious, cherished moments as he sat at the briefing table, half-listening to a scenario he’d already pre-planned. It allowed him time to daydream – of Nikita, her warm, naked body on top of his, pressed from neck to knee, her heart pounding against his, her breath hot, hushed, urgent against his cheek as she whispered her desires to him and he’d twisted their bodies until he was dominant… They hadn’t been intimate since the Armel mission, and Michael had had plenty of time to conjure up new fantasies of Nikita… 

“…Mission leaves in two hours. Michael, assemble your team,” Operations was saying to him. Michael had to squirm a bit in his chair – his abstraction had taken its toll on his body, and his erection would be obvious to anyone should he stand. Squeezing his eyes shut, Michael forced himself to think of math, of blood, of dead bodies. His erection receded like a deflated balloon, and when he knew his black pants would reveal nothing of what he’d been thinking seconds earlier, he stood up with an air of decision. His green eyes met the eyes of everyone in the room, re-establishing dominance – and then he exited, his spine straight, his eyes glued to the far wall, seeing nothing. 

As Michael walked to munitions to get his gear, he thought of Nikita. He remembered the look in her eyes when he’d told her he loved her. He savored the feel of her arms around him, her sob in his ear, her breath against his neck. He cherished every nuance of that moment – he’d memorized it, because he knew it would most likely have to sustain him through all types of hell, courtesy of Section One. 

************ 

Nikita strolled to van access, loaded for bear. She had more heavy artillery than most small battalions in the Marines, and she wondered, though not too much, of what kind of mission she was a part. She had hoped to see Michael, but he wasn’t present, and she entered the van with a sense of disappointment. She remembered when he’d told her he loved her, nearly two weeks earlier. She remembered his eyes – so green it almost frightened her. She could still feel his hands on her, his breath against her face as he whispered endearments in French to her, not knowing she had learned the basics and could recognize what he was saying to her. She’d felt something melt inside her – he had told her she was his life, his love, his soul, his dream, his friend… 

Now, Nikita was in the mission van, heading to a destination out of her control. She knew her job – she was to enter the building, access the safe, obtain plans to a nuclear plant in the area, and get out without detection. It seemed simple – a cut and dried operation, and she knew she had Birkoff monitoring her every move. She would be as safe as she _could_ be, within Section constraints. Yet, with her recent experiences – namely, P.J. and his undeniable influence on her, and Michael’s confession to her – Nikita was unsettled. She could feel Michael in her blood, in her head – as easily as she could hear P.J. telling her to trust her kidneys… _Kidneys go deeper than the heart_ , he’d said. _They aren’t as easily confused or distracted_. Nikita had laughed, then – but now, she realized that thirteen year-old boy knew more about life than she’d learned in all her life on earth. She chose to remember his words, to keep him in her heart and mind and let him guide her, like a muse, or a beacon… 

************ 

Michael waited at Birkoff’s station – he watched the monitors, and every few moments, he asked about the progress of the mission. Birkoff would normally have snapped a rude response at being so closely monitored. He knew, though, that Michael was concerned for Nikita, and so he kept his mouth shut and just reported what he knew. Suddenly, he heard a voice in his head - _Seymour, I’d give almost anything to be where you are… You have a gift, a way to make the world a better place_ … 

Birkoff caught his breath, hoping Michael hadn’t seen his lapse. He saw the profile, saw that Nikita was safe, and he said, with an air of confidence, “Information confirmed. Nikita’s okay. She’s outta there.” 

Michael, in an uncharacteristic gesture of approval, clasped Birkoff’s shoulder warmly, briefly, then whispered, “Thank you.” He was gone before Birkoff could recover from the contact of the hand on his shoulder… 

~~~ 

Debarkation was as expected – five operatives, dressed in black, exhausted-looking, but clearly glad to be alive. Nikita was the last one to leave the van, as usual. She always waited for everyone else to leave before she debarked – it was an obscure deference to courtesy, handed down from some relative or other, and she’d never shed the shroud of responsibility. Michael had recognized it early on in their tenure together as mentor and trainee, and it had always been a source of amusement, and a painful sort of catch in his throat. 

When Nikita exited the van, she glanced up from her distracted reverie to see Michael standing there, his eyes gliding up and down her form as if checking for wounds. She froze – allowed him to appraise her condition, a small smile quirking at the corner of her mouth. When she saw his body relax and his eyes become their normal shade of green, she proceeded to debriefing. The mission had been flawless, and she knew it had been because Michael had overseen the whole thing. 

As she walked down the shadowed hallway to debrief, she felt and heard several things. She felt Michael’s eyes on her, watching her walk. She felt his scrutiny, and his approval. She heard P.J.’s voice in her ear, saying, _He loves you, Nikita – he’s just scared to say it. Don’t give up_ … She saw his face, his blue eyes filled with admiration and a touch of impishness as he tugged her pigtail and said, “Race ya to the cafeteria!” They both had known he couldn’t win that race, but he’d challenged her anyway, and she’d accepted, gladly letting him win, happily letting him accuse her of letting him win. It became a game with them – she would let him get away with something outrageous, and he’d call her on it, then they’d both laugh. She couldn’t count the number of times, now, that she’d hugged his skinny body close to her and clung, unwilling to let him go. And the same number of times, he’d hung in her arms, his eyes closed, his thin arms tight around her neck, as if his heart would break if he released his hold. 

Nikita felt tears smarting in her eyes, and she didn’t fight them anymore. It was no use – if she didn’t cry when she felt like it, she’d only go home and cry until her body hurt, and she figured it was better, and easier on her health, if she just let it happen in public, where she would be forced to curtail it somewhat and spare her body the wracking sobs and wrenching pain. She didn’t tell Michael, even though he asked her, once in awhile, how she was. She didn’t want to unload on him, when she knew he was hurting equally as much, or perhaps even more. Of all the people who had bonded with P.J. during his brief tenancy at Section One, Michael was the last person anyone had expected to take him under wing. Yet, he had, in his quiet, unobtrusive way. 

When P.J. had turned up missing one day, Operations ordered security to do a thorough check of the facility to locate him. He was nowhere to be found. A subsequent search revealed that Michael, too, had seemingly gone A.W.O.L. Operations, with a strange, knowing smile on his face, had ordered the search discontinued. He knew the two of them were together, though he didn’t know where. It hadn’t occurred to Operations to wonder why P.J.’s tracker wasn’t working… 

************ 

Michael walked down the dock to the edge of the lake where he’d spent a confession-filled afternoon with P.J. two months ago. The boy had pulled secrets out of him that he had never told anyone else, and he’d done it in complete innocence. His questions had been deceptively innocuous, seemingly childlike. It hadn’t been until later, back at Section, that Michael had realized he’d been thoroughly interrogated by a thirteen year-old boy with a baseball cap, a bald head, baggy pants, and impish blue eyes that were doomed to extinction – and he’d surrendered the information so easily he would have been cancelled immediately, had it been Section doing the questioning… 

~~~ 

Michael and Nikita huddled together in a ditch, listening to the massive firepower which burned a perverted path of fireworks above their heads. It was night. It was the future they’d dreamed of, gone horribly wrong. Even with all the contingencies Section had forecasted, they had not planned for this – this completely left-field loose-cannon in the form of a supposedly-departed enemy called Stavros. Even as Michael had dived for cover, making sure Nikita was safe beneath him, he’d thought, _This shouldn’t be happening – we shouldn’t be here…They hung us out to dry_ … 

Section One. They. Not “we” anymore. Things had changed – the battle was a new and different one, and the players had rules which were not posted. Now, Michael was coming to the realization that the trust and faith he’d placed in Section’s abilities to protect and defend had been seriously misplaced. In the next instant, he thought, anguished, _Why didn’t I listen to Nikita when she tried to tell me?…I should have trusted her more_ … 

He knew it was because of the way he’d been trained from day one. He’d been indoctrinated into Section-think and Section-speak since the moment he’d come to consciousness in the now-notorious “white room”. They’d snapped him up when he’d been young and impressionable, and they’d known exactly how to mold him into the kind of man they’d needed for their purpose. Michael knew he’d been so devastated by the bomb-blast that he would have succumbed to anything as a way of atoning for the deaths he and Rene Dion had caused – even the deceptive, insidious ways of Section One. 

Now, he lay in a trench, with rockets from both zones zigzagging overhead, each side determined to annihilate the other. He and Nikita were caught in the deadly crossfire, and unless he could come up with a plan, Michael knew it was only a matter of time before both of them were caught or killed. 

Michael could feel Nikita shaking against his body. He breathed into her ear, “Don’t be afraid, Nikita. We’ll get through this.” He hoped he wasn’t lying to her. 

************ 

Section One had closed down. Birkoff was operating the databases in stand-alone mode, which meant they were temporarily untraceable, but also limited in their outgoing transmissions for help. Mad’laine and Operations were huddled in the aerie, discussing the mission in neutral, non-threatening tones. “Our security’s been breached. We need to cut them loose. We can’t afford to be exposed now – we’re too deep into the game,” Operations was saying as he paced. Mad’laine was standing close to the farthest wall from the door, conveying by her body-language and her position in the room that she was behind his decision, whatever it might be after she’d voiced her thoughts. 

“I disagree,” Mad’laine said softly, her eyes deep and almost melting – Operations was momentarily distracted, effectively disarmed by her gaze. She went on, “Michael and Nikita are our two best operatives. You know as well as I do that as long as they are permitted to function together, they will get the job done, no matter what it might require. And right now, we’re up against an enemy who can destroy us.” Her voice had never elevated beyond conversational level, but her words were screaming. She paused, gauging Operations’ reaction, then she finished, deftly, “We _need_ Michael and Nikita – alive. We should send a team in after them to recover them. They’re the only ones with enough combined intel to bring down Stavros again."” 

Operations nodded, reluctantly, his arms crossed over his chest, the familiar cigarette conspicuously absent from his fingers. His recent encounter with a thirteen year-old cancer patient named P.J. had moved him to quit the habit, and he hadn’t smoked since then. The funny part, he mused, completely off topic, was that he didn’t miss it anymore. _But I miss you, P.J._ , he thought, and was glad no one could hear what was clearly going on behind his ice-blue eyes… 

“As usual, Mad’laine, you’re right,” he acceded softly. “Get Murrow to assemble a team. Bring them in – zero margin for error.” Operations strode out of the aerie with an air of determination. Mad’laine remained behind for a second, watching him leave, her expression knowing and a little amused. If Operations had known her thoughts, he would have swan-dived from the aerie rather than taken the stairs… 

~~~ 

“Michael…” Nikita whispered. His face was so close to hers that she had only to turn slightly in the trench – he was plastered against her back, spoon-fashion, his left arm under her neck, cradling her head, his right arm over her ribcage, holding her close to him. It was comfortable and comforting, but the reality of where and why they were there was not lost on either of them. 

“What?” he responded, equally softly. 

“P.J. just talked to me.” 

“Nikita…” Michael’s voice was scared and cautious at once. He hadn’t been aware of wounds which would have impaired her capabilities or caused her to hallucinate… 

“No, I’m all right, Michael,” she whispered back, found his hand near her ribs and squeezed it in reassurance. He waited, holding his breath, hoping for something more Nikita-ish… 

“He told us to break and run like hell for the trees…” 

_Merde_! Michael swore silently. _It IS P.J_ … He hauled Nikita to her feet, closed his eyes and prayed to an unknown entity, Please… please… They ran as fast as they could, with explosions and fireworks all around them, until they reached the shelter of the forest, then collapsed in the safety of the tall trees. Michael held Nikita in his arms, feeling her heart pounding under his wrist, knowing she could feel his own heart hammering against her back. 

They clung together, catching their breath, their eyes closed… A voice was echoing between them like a liaison: _Save each other… Protect each other_ … It was P.J.’s voice. Michael recognized it from his long conversation with P.J. at the dock, only two days before the boy had died. He could feel Nikita in his arms, stiffening, and he knew, somehow, that she was hearing the same message. Yet, he had to confirm it. “Nikita?” he whispered to her, hearing her indrawn breath as she fought for control. 

“What, Michael?” she asked very quietly. 

“Did you hear it?” 

“Um – hear what?” Nikita didn’t want to reveal to Michael that she’d been hearing P.J.’s voice clearly in her mind – he’d become “Section-Michael” on her, and she didn’t want or need that now. Her answer was deliberately guarded in self-defense. 

“P.J.” 

Nikita’s jaw dropped. Michael had heard it, too. She couldn’t conceal her feelings. “Yes, Michael – I heard him.” 

“What did he tell you?” 

The silence between them was so prolonged that Michael had almost given up expecting a response from Nikita, when she finally said, very softly, “He said, ‘Protect each other…” She left out the “save each other” part, because she sensed that Michael already felt he was beyond saving, and she needed his conviction and strength to get them both out of the certain death in which they were buried. 

She felt Michael’s body unclench – he seemed to sag against her then, and she didn’t know if it was because of relief or because he’d finally given in to defeat. It scared her – to her credit, she did not succumb to fear or resignation. She kept her body rigid, even though her insides were jello. 

Michael sighed – loudly, and in obvious relief. Nikita stifled a smile – he was finally getting the hang of listening… 

~~~ 

“Team Two, report.” Birkoff’s voice was tinny in the headset of the team leader. 

“Got ‘em,” Randy said abruptly. “In transit now.” He didn’t say that Michael and Nikita were seemingly untouched by the horror of the situation in which they’d been surrounded. They were quiet, and sat close together, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, thigh to thigh. Their hands were clasped in their own laps, their eyes straight ahead. Randy swallowed – he felt like an unwanted guest at a party for two… 

************ 

Debrief was a breeze disguised as a nightmare. Michael was called into one office, and Nikita into another. Their reports were completely cohesive and in collusion with each other, because neither had anything to hide. They cooperated fully, relaxed and receptive to questions. Hours passed. Questions were re-asked, and answers re-given, verbatim. Finally, both operatives were released, and as Nikita headed to debarking, Michael intercepted her. “Are you all right?” he asked very softly, as they strolled, mentor-to-trainee for the benefit of the surveillance cameras. 

“Fine,” she replied neutrally. Her eyes conveyed another message: _Meet me outside_. 

Michael gave an almost imperceptible nod and parted ways with her, heading to his office. He busied himself for a couple of minutes with e-mails and paperwork, then logged off, grabbed his jacket, and left his office, knowing that Section security would turn off the lights at the prescribed hour unless whoever was awake typed in a special code to keep everything operating. 

He quietly left Section One, and after scanning the area, saw Nikita standing in the parking lot, her hands shoved in the pockets of her parka. The weather was cold, even at mid-day – her breath was visible, regular and untainted with stress or fear. Michael approached her, took her in his arms, and held her close, feeling her shuddering. “M-Michael…” she said, and her teeth chattered. “C-can we go somewhere warm?” 

He smiled a little, and guided her to his car quickly. After helping her inside and taking command of the driver’s seat, he turned up the heat, scanned his CD programming for something mellow, found “Afro-Celt Sound System” and locked it in. As “Saor/Free” began to play, he whispered, “Relax, Nikita…” 

She took him at his word, slouched down in her seat, trusting him to take her where he himself would feel safe, and closed her eyes, listening to the music. She didn’t recognize it, but she loved it – a low, monotone bass, and what sounded like some sort of ethereal bagpipe. The beat was rhythmic and she thought she recognized mandolin and bongos … She drifted away to the sounds, and she was flying, without wings, without anything other than her own volition. She was gliding twenty feet above the surface of the Pacific Ocean, heading into the sun, the heat on her body, the glow of orange and silver beckoning to her, the beach behind her. She was in complete control – she was a seabird flying, absorbing the warmth and the light, a goddess… 

~~~ 

“Nikita…” Michael’s soft voice coaxed her back into reality. She opened her eyes, and her first view when she followed the sound with her eyes was that of Michael’s celadon-green gaze, tender and soft. “We’re here.” 

Still fuzzy, Nikita giggled, thinking, Of course we’re here – if we weren’t, we wouldn’t be having this conversation because it’d mean we didn’t exist…” Then she came awake completely, focussed on Michael’s eyes and his gentle, tolerant, patient expression, and pulled herself together for him. “I’m awake,” she said, clearing her throat and sitting up. 

Michael shut off the engine and took the keys from the ignition, sensing that Nikita needed to come back to reality in her own way. He’d learned it the hard way, on the barge in Lyons. He’d kissed her once, insistently, in the dead of the night, and she’d come awake with a right hook that had almost taken out his eye. He’d been awake enough to block it, but he’d had no doubt, from that second onward, that Nikita had been no man’s woman, even in passing… 

“Where are we?” she asked softly, rubbing her eyes and stifling a yawn. 

Michael didn’t answer immediately – instead, he climbed out of the car, closed his door and went around to Nikita’s side to help her out, fairly certain that she was exhausted. She’d be wobbly, no doubt, and he braced himself. 

He was right. She staggered against him, and he caught her easily, his arms strong and sure around her as he closed her door. He led her, silently, up a brick walkway to the front door of a house – nestled in the trees, away from the street, it was like a cottage in the woods. Michael held her against him like a large Raggedy-Ann doll as he deftly fit his key into the lock, opened the door, switched on a light, and helped her inside, then kicked the door shut behind him. He’d lock it later, after he’d gotten Nikita situated. 

“Watch your step,” he cautioned quietly, and lifted her a tiny bit as she walked. She counted the steps down into the sunken living room – there were three – and as Michael seated her on an overstuffed, extremely comfortable couch, she couldn’t seem to resist curling up on it, her body shuddering with cold. She thought of their mission – of the debrief, of the missiles flying overhead, of the deafening crash of impact, of Michael’s body, warm and hard and comforting against hers… She drifted to sleep, losing the fight for consciousness. 

Michael had gone back to lock the door and set the security system. He lit a fire in the large fireplace, and when he turned back to speak to Nikita, he saw her asleep on the couch, and his heart pounded. _She’s so beautiful_ … he thought. _And she’s mine_ … He heard P.J.’s voice in his mind, telling him to tell Nikita he loved her. _Good advice_ , he thought. Then, _God, I miss you, P.J_ … 

He was tempted to sit on the brick ledge in front of the fireplace and simply watch Nikita sleep, but his body would not allow it. He went over to her, knelt down by the couch, and tenderly touched his fingers to her face. Then, immediately remembering her penchant for awakening with the fist of death, he moved out of range. To his surprise, she didn’t come up fighting – her eyes opened, and they were silver-blue and slightly unfocussed. “Michael…” she breathed, and reached for him. 

Michael let her put her arms around him and pull him down. He whispered, “Nikita…” and closed his eyes, surrendering to her lips and skin even as he clenched himself against the onslaught of desire. 

He was surprised when Nikita whispered against his ear, “Are we being monitored?” He’d thought she had abandoned herself to the same emotions he himself was feeling – again, she’d surprised him. 

He shook his head. “No. Section doesn’t know about this place.” 

Nikita didn’t believe him, and she automatically scanned the room for cameras or anything which looked like surveillance devices. She saw none. _Maybe he’s telling the truth_! she thought. 

Then, before she could consider it further, Michael’s arms tightened around her, his lips found her neck, and he whispered, “We’re safe here.” Nikita needed no further words. 

************ 

Afterglow. Michael and Nikita had made it upstairs to the large bedroom in the loft, and after a passionate, breathless, athletic wrestling with clothing, quilts and sheets, they were finally able to relax in the way both had mutually agreed was the most effective. Now, Nikita was snuggled against Michael, curving against his side, his arm around her shoulders, his other hand idly caressing her skin in random places. 

“Tell me what you and P.J. talked about the day you disappeared,” she said. Her voice was calm and pensive, her body soft and pliable against his. In this new calm between them, Michael felt some of his Section-ingrained guardedness melt away. 

_P.J_., Michael thought, amused. _It always seems to be P.J. who opens the doors_ … Aloud, he said, “Nikita, I can’t tell you everything.” 

“But you could tell _him_ everything, right?” There was a note of indignation in her voice, almost of petulance. 

Michael felt her tense up in his arms, and he sighed silently. When would he ever NOT have to explain every detail to her? “I can’t tell you everything,” he said patiently, “because P.J. swore me to secrecy about some things. I promised him I would never tell anyone, not even you.” Then, so quietly, Nikita wasn’t certain she’d heard correctly at first, Michael whispered, “I won’t break my promise to him.” 

Nikita relaxed again. A promise. To a child now gone. Only Michael would be honorable enough to keep that kind of promise. She felt her heart swell with love, for both of them. She raised up in his arms and gazed down into his eyes, which widened a little at the blatant emotion he saw in her expression. Then she kissed him softly, her fingers at his temples. It wasn’t a sexual kiss – it was one of deep love and complete trust. 

Michael felt strangely faint for a moment. The kiss ended, and he was a little surprised to realize that he was still in the same position he’d been in when the kiss had begun - he’d felt as if he’d been swept up in a whirlwind and dropped again. He found his voice and started to speak. “We talked at first about his mother…” 

Nikita closed her eyes, listening to Michael’s soft, pleasantly-accented voice as it wafted around her, telling her the story of P.J. “He was worried that Section would kill her. I told him I wouldn’t let that happen. I promised him.” 

Another promise. Michael seemed to be making a great number of them recently – Nikita wondered how many of them he’d be forced to break in the course of his life with Section One. She wondered if there would be any way she could help Michael to keep from breaking them. 

“He and I devised a way of cutting him loose with the least amount of pain to her. I took him to her, after we’d finished talking about all the other things.” 

“You mean, those things you can’t tell me,” Nikita said, and her voice held a note of gentle amusement. 

“Yes.” 

“So – tell me what you CAN tell me.” 

“He asked about my life before Section One.” 

Nikita held her breath. It was a touchy subject for Michael – whenever she’d tried to broach it with him, he’d always been as prickly as a cougar with a thorn in its foot. He’d push her away, verbally if not physically, or he’d change the subject, or he’d give her the thousand-yard stare with a twist – gazing past her line of vision as if she were invisible. Now, Nikita waited to hear what, exactly, Michael had told P.J. in strict confidence. 

“He wanted to know what kind of man I was. It was… difficult to answer.” 

“Why?” 

A pregnant pause. “Because I honestly didn’t remember who I was before Section One.” 

A dumbfounded silence. Nikita remembered to exhale. She had to remind herself to inhale again. 

“I had to think about it,” Michael went on, and for a crazy second, Nikita thought he’d been referring to her lack of respiratory coordination. Then, she realized sheepishly that he was still locked in his own personal revelation. “P.J. waited until I remembered.” 

Nikita didn’t dare speak – Michael was being more open and communicative than he’d ever been in all the time she’d known him, and she wasn’t about to interrupt his flow of words. She very carefully made herself comfortable against him, moving slowly so as not to startle him out of his reverie. 

His voice came again, softer, more pensive, almost as if he were lost in the past. “I was full of ideas,” Michael said, and he sounded childlike. Nikita was chilled and thrilled – this was a side of him she’d never seen – had never even dared to _hope_ to see. “I had so many dreams in my head then. I remember when I was six or seven, I wanted to build the biggest tree-house in Marseilles – we had a tall tree in our backyard – I don’t know what kind of tree it was, but it had the kind of large branches that made it perfect for climbing. I gathered the lumber from the woodshed in the back of the house. Grandfather used that shed for storage, and he’d always put pieces of scrap lumber in it, from things he’d take apart – benches, chairs, salvage from demolished buildings. He was a scavenger – he used to say that a person never knew when they’d need that wood to build a shelter.” Michael let a soft laugh escape, and his fingers idly caressed Nikita’s shoulder. She doubted that he was even aware he was doing it. 

“I spent every spare moment building that tree house,” he went on. “I’d made blueprints – or at least, a six year-old’s version of them – and I knew exactly what I wanted it to look like. A couple of times, I hurt myself hammering nails into that tree, and maman would worry about me. But she and papa never stopped me from trying to make my dream come true.” 

Papa… Nikita swallowed more tears. There was a long silence, then Michael sighed. “I did it.” 

Nikita braved a prompt. “You built your tree-house?” 

“Yes.” Another long silence. Nikita whispered, “And – then what?” Pulling hen’s teeth, Nikita thought, her teeth gritted. 

Michael finally responded, his voice almost drowsy-sounding. “I slept in it every night while the weather was warm. Alone. And I planned my future.” 

_Careful_ , Nikita thought. _Some people sound completely normal, just before they surrender their last brain cell to the god of vaporware_ … Her voice barely audible, she phrased the question as delicately as she could, sensing that Michael was more fragile now than she’d ever seen him before – she would not be the one to push him over the edge. “And – your future – what did you plan?” She held her breath as inconspicuously as possible, even though she’d never felt more afraid in her life. It was like holding a live grenade in her arms. 

“I was going to be a knight,” he said, very softly. “Well, when you’re six, you don’t think about conventional law-enforcement.” 

Nikita couldn’t help it – she chuckled a little, and to her surprise, Michael did, too, and snuggled closer to her. His next words galvanized her. “I’m glad I’m telling this to you, Nikita. I‘ve never liked having to keep secrets from you. You’re the only one I trust.” 

Her world was completed then, and obliterated, and re-formed in the space of a gasp. Without stopping to think, she whispered, “Michael, I’ve loved you so long I can’t remember what I was like without you.” Even as she uttered the words, she was hoping this would not be the end of his confessional to her. 

It wasn’t. Michael squeezed her tightly in his arms – she couldn’t see his face, but she could feel from his embrace that he was comfortable with things as they were at that moment. His voice confirmed it. “P.J. asked me, ‘If you could change one thing about your life, what would it be?’” 

Nikita knew now that the spell would not be broken. The walls were down, and Michael was hers. “And what did you tell him?’ she asked, a smile crossing her features and reflecting in the tone of her voice. 

“I told him I’d change the events that led up to your cancellation.” 

_Jeezus_. “Michael, why THAT?” Nikita was astonished and chagrinned. “Wouldn’t you change the events that led to your induction into Section One?” 

“No,” he replied slowly, thoughtfully. “If I changed those events, I wouldn’t know you.” 

Nikita fell silent, her throat working in amazement, and the tears wouldn’t stop, then. She clutched Michael to her and whispered, “Oh, God, Michael – I don’t think I can ever let go of you now…” 

His words murmured back to her sealed her fate. “I wouldn’t let you…” He pressed his lips to her temple, her eyes, her mouth – his arms tightened around her until she almost couldn’t breathe, and the flame between them flared into a bonfire… 

~~~ 

It was still early evening – Michael and Nikita had dragged two of the comforters from the bed downstairs and were relaxed in front of the fire. Michael had added logs to it, and the blaze was warm and welcoming. He’d also provided a small banquet – a platter of cheese, fruit, wine and mineral water, as well as some sliced meats. Nikita was amazed at his skill, and his thoughtfulness – he must have prepared this feast while she’d dozed after their recent lovemaking. 

Thinking about it, she was caught breathless again. Michael had revealed a side she’d never experienced before – a tender, considerate, devilish side. He’d teased her, tempted her, his laughing eyes taunting her to give him more – and she had. He’d satisfied her unselfishly, whispering his urgency in her ear even as she had climaxed, then holding back and quietly coaxing, his voice rich with passion, “Again… come for me again…” 

Nikita swallowed, coming back to the present in a rush of heat and embarrassment. She’d been wanton in her lust, and Michael had reveled in it, encouraged it, exulted in it – and finally, had succumbed to it with a loud groan, a hoarse expletive in French, and her name, whispered reverently, his eyes locked to hers as he completed his pleasure, making sure she could see everything she had done to him… 

~~~ 

“Where did you take P.J. that day you disappeared?” Michael asked her tranquilly, gazing into the fire with Nikita in his arms. The comforter was loosely wrapped around them, the banquet half-demolished in front of them. 

“To the carnival,” she replied serenely. “He wanted to ride the fastest rollercoasters, and there were two or three of them there, so I took him on all the rides.” Michael couldn’t suppress a smile. It was so Nikita to be a child to please a child. “We ate cotton candy and snow-cones and teriyaki chicken on skewers – I didn’t know a kid could pack away so much food and still keep it in his stomach during the ‘Cyclone’!” she laughed softly, her voice holding a twinge of sadness as she remembered that day. P.J. had been so animated, so very alive then… 

“I can’t believe he’s gone,” she whispered, and a pain shot through her and closed her throat. She squirmed deeper into Michael’s arms, and he held her tighter, sensing something like bone-deep anguish rippling through her. 

She fought the sorrow. It took several moments, but after awhile, she brought the conversation back to something which had been unfinished and which still troubled her. In a slightly shaky voice, she asked, “So – what was the plan you and P.J. came up with to tell his mother?” Nikita was still unsatisfied, mentally. In a deeper part of herself, Nikita knew that whatever she learned from this, it would be something she could apply to herself, somehow, and use in her continued survival. But, more than the surface-selfishness, she wanted to see even deeper into Michael – and P.J. seemed to be the one element, the one beautiful liaison, between inhumanity and humanity. 

“We had to explain the fact that he’d been gone for nearly a month. I told her we’d been working with him on treatments. P.J. said he’d volunteered, but he hadn’t told her because he didn’t want to worry her. He apologized for being gone and causing her all that worry, and then, I asked her if there was anything she needed.” 

Nikita waited – Michael seemed to have difficulty with the words, and she could feel him take a deep breath, let it out, then take another, almost as if he were swallowing tears. She didn’t look at him – she knew he needed time and a little discretion on her part, so she remained silent and still. 

“She said she was fine.” 

_No WONDER he’s choking up_! Nikita thought, aghast. _It must have been a shock for him to hear his own words used in such irony_ … Aloud, she breathed, “Oh, Michael…” She shifted her position until she was cradling him in her arms, then she tightened her hold on him and said nothing more. 

Michael went on, his body relaxing against the pain. “I told her the research facility where P.J. was working was putting through the paperwork on a substantial reimbursement for any anguish we had caused her concerning her son. And I asked her if it would be all right if we kept him for a few more days, to finish up some tests. She said it would be acceptable, but that she wanted him home for the weekend.” 

“The weekend?” Nikita asked, curious. 

“It was her anniversary – she and P.J. always spent that day together.” Michael sighed deeply, and Nikita heard the catch in his voice. “I would have taken him there,” he whispered. P.J. had died before the weekend. 

Nikita was silently crying – tears, but no sound. Her heart broke along with P.J.’s mother’s heart. When she could speak, she asked, “Did you go to her after—“ She couldn’t make the words come out. 

“Yes,” Michael said, his tone neutral. “I told her he was gone, but that because of him, a lot of people would live longer lives.” He paused, then added in a hushed voice, “It was the truth.” 

Nikita knew it was. P.J. had helped Birkoff develop more sophisticated and airtight security measures for their systems. He had helped Walter create explosives which could be more precisely focused on a specific target, without the “wild-card” element that made them so dangerous to civilians. He’d helped Operations see faces – fathers, brothers, daughters, sons - instead of numbers. He’d helped Mad’laine re-think her strategies for the greater good to include life, rather than death. 

And he’d helped Michael to find the soul he’d thought had died long ago. The most profound proof of P.J.’s impact was lying in her arms at that moment, holding her as if he would never let go, shuddering in sorrow as he confessed things that, prior to P.J., he would have buried inside and borne alone, in silence. Nikita thought, _Oh, P.J., I wish you were still alive – we miss you so much_ … She rocked Michael gently, her lips to his temple, her eyes closed as tears leaked out anyway. For that moment, in the darkness of the sunken living room in front of the fire, with the curtains drawn against the late afternoon sun, she and Michael were two halves of the same person – a person who loved a thirteen year-old boy beyond the boundaries of death… 

************ 

Operations paced in the aerie, his ice-blue eyes worried, angry, intense. He was seeing the latest intel from a third-world country which had recently acquired nuclear weapons – they were poised to flaunt their power, ignorant of the chain-reaction that power-play would create. _Jesus_ , he thought, not uttering a single verbal syllable. He could almost feel the grey hairs sprouting in forests on his head, and for one irrational moment, he thought, _I’d keep Grecian Formula in business through the Y2K-debacle_ … It had been over two months since that damned kid had invaded his conscience and planted seeds in his head that he could not, for the life of him, jar loose. Now, he heard P.J.’s voice – a new voice, more mature, more confident, less urgent. _I know your real name, Paul… Don’t forget what that ‘greater good’ really is_ … 

Operations slammed his palms down on the desk, squeezed his eyes shut against the voice, then finally gave up the fight, took a deep breath, and summoned Birkoff. “Get me Michael.” 

~~~ 

They lay, twined together, relaxed, indolent, watching the fire as it slowly burned hot and intense, with very little flame. Michael’s fingers idly stroked Nikita’s temple, and her cheek was warmed against his chest. She could hear his heart beating, slow and steady, peaceful and content. She memorized the moment, because her instincts told her it would not last. 

Michael’s cell-phone rang. Nikita felt his body stiffen, and she swallowed her disappointment, forcing herself to pull away from him, knowing he would answer the call. To her surprise, he pulled her tightly against him, delivered a flurry of kisses to her temple, her eyes, her lips, and before he separated from her, he whispered passionately, “I love you, mon coeur…” 

Nikita watched as Michael rose quickly, lithe and limber as a cat, and in a few economical steps reached his cell phone. “Yes?” 

Silence. “When?” 

Another silence. “We’ll be there in an hour.” 

He slapped the phone shut, his eyes staring at the wall, his body gloriously naked and unashamed. Nikita felt hunger rise in her again, but the counter-shock of Section made her take a deep breath and become the operative, not the woman. When Michael turned to her, she saw that her action was the right one – he was slowly becoming Team-Leader. 

He approached her, seemingly unaware of his beautiful nudity. “We have a briefing in an hour.” His voice was cold, his eyes flat and army-green. But Nikita saw beyond the facade – saw the fear, the pain, the sorrow, the joy – she saw it all, and silently, she thanked P.J. for giving her the words she should have already known… _He loves you, Nikita – he’s just scared… Don’t give up_ … Immediately, she arose, shedding the warmth of the quilts and the fire, and left the room to fetch her clothing – swallowing her heart, one more time, knowing that Michael, too, was stuffing his true self down into the dungeon where he stored all his feelings. It was their survival – and now, they both knew it. 

Before they departed the sanctuary, Nikita laid her hand against Michael’s cheek, saw his eyes close in ecstasy, as if memorizing her touch, and she whispered, “I love you, Michael…” 

He reached up, took her hand and removed it from his flesh, holding it tightly, and replied, his green eyes metamorphosing to an unearthly translucent hue that only Nikita could evoke, “Mon rêveur...ma vie...je suis ici pour toi - toujours…” Nikita felt herself begin to tremble. _My dream…my life…I am here for you – always_ … 

_Anything_ … she thought fervently, and her eyes bored into Michael’s with the vehemence of her belief. _I can do anything, as long as I have you_ … They left the warmth of the home which had been their protection and their wonder for the past two days. Together, they emerged into a world that no longer held power over them. Their fingers entwined, they strode side by side – strong, sure, linked with one heartbeat and one voice – invincible. And P.J. was their guardian angel…


End file.
